


'Til My Lover Returns To me

by My_Trex_has_fleas



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Deal with a Devil, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Witchcraft, Witches, the witch au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 04:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Trex_has_fleas/pseuds/My_Trex_has_fleas
Summary: Witchfinder Ross Poldark is riding to Norfolk, called to deal with a witch.Prompt fill for Gathering Fiki Winter Fandom Raffle - Witch AUCaution: This one has innards :)Many thanks to Teigh for the beta read <3





	1. A Witch

The mud slopped under the hooves of their horses and the rain was relentless enough that it dribbled off the end of Ross’ hood in a steady stream. He was soaked through, the heavy woolen travel cloak that he wore doing nothing to keep out the wet and the cold from the heavy leather and steel armour he wore underneath. His hands were frozen under his gloves, curled in a rictus grip around the reins. Next to him, George and his father were faring no better and Ross longed to be out of the weather and inside, a warm inn perhaps where he could sleep in a proper bed and be done with this folly. Even their ever cheerful Franciscan Father Dwight, seated on the cart behind them with his cousin Francis, was quiet and morose and slumped under his cloak. He did not know why their presence was even required for transportation. Witches were witches and the one that now sat in the gaolhouse awaiting them would hang just the same as the others he had attended on. Still, he’d dutifully packed his things and made the journey that was taking them to the fens.

They came down from the dirt road and crested the hill and lights came into the distance. It was not a large town, but it was their destination. They were to be met by Father Osbourne Whitworth, the man responsible for the discovery of the witch and who had written to the Archbishop in London requesting immediate assistance.

The accused was an orphan who had been living with his mother and helping to run the inn that he’d been born into. He and his mother had always been considered odd according to the letter, but it had only been when the boy’s mother had died that the village had come to their conclusion that he was trouble.

Rosemary Hawkins had died, taken in the night with a malady that she had not recovered from according to their informant. Many had expected her son, James, to make his own way after that, the boy having already shown himself to be an excellent waterman and who worked on the boats from the village. It had come as some surprise when he’d taken over the running of the inn. The letter had reported that he’d been made several fine offers on the property, but had declined them all. Then had come an unfortunate accident which had seen half the building burned to the ground, and that had been when the village’s run of misfortune had begun.

It had started with drownings. Several men were lost on a perfectly clear day, a child had fallen into the village well and a young woman had taken her own life in the duck pond past the boundary road. Next had been the livestock. Cattle and sheep and horses had all fallen to its spread, frothing at the mouth and writhing in great spasms on the ground. The carcasses had reeked of it, and it had decimated the farms around the village. 

That had given Father Whitworth pause and he had started his campaign to find the witch responsible. For his efforts, his own church had been struck by lightning in the worst storm they had had in living memory. That had been the final straw, and the people had gone out and taken the boy by force and imprisoned him for his actions, and that brought them full circle back to where Ross sat atop his horse and studied the village below them. 

‘Come along.’ Cary kicked his grey mare and spurred her into a gentle trot. ‘We can get supper.’

They rode down the hill and into the village and Ross looked around him. The village was a mean place, the timber buildings creaking with time and wear. There was not a soul about, and when they finally came to the inn set just back from the small harbour, no-one came out to him and he and George were left to hold the horses while Cary went inside to announce them. 

‘Tis a foul night to be sure.’ Father Dwight remarked as he climbed from the cart and came over to them. Ross grimaced in sympathy, scraping the thick coat of mud from the bottom of his boots on a nearby cobble. 

‘Aye.’ He moved to stand well under the eaves. ‘And this place looks godforsaken.’ 

‘Lads.’ Cary called from the door as a rough looking man came out. ‘Come in.’ 

Francis handed over the cart to the man and followed un behind them as they went inside, George going to confer with his father while Francis, Ross and Dwight all made straight for the fireplace. The innkeeper’s wife, a sour looking woman, came to relieve them of their dripping cloaks and hats. She grunted something about dinner and directed them to a table at the side of the room. 

They sat and she came back with a pot of stew and two loaves of bread, setting it on the table with a carelessness that spoke of disgruntlement. There was beer to go with it, but the quality was poor. The food was far from being entirely edible, the thin watery stew more stringy vegetables than meat and the bread grainy and tasteless. Still it would fill the holes in their bellies and they all fell to, eating their fill until they had cleaned their dishes. The innkeeper had come back in and whispered to the woman before they’d taken up roost in the corner and watched him, their eyes full of suspicion. 

‘They’re a pleasant lot.’ Francis remarked and next to him George snorted in derision. 

‘I think they’re probably more than ready to see the back of us.’ Cary replied. ‘Seeing as to why we are here.’

As if on cue, the door to the inn flew open and another man came in. Like Dwight, he wore a long cassock and cloak, and he threw back his hood to reveal himself as a ruddy faced man with thinning fair hair shaved in a tonsure. At his end of the table, Father Dwight rose and went to him and the man extended both hands, clasping his in greeting. 

‘Thank you all for coming. I am Father Osbourne.’ He looked past Dwight to the rest of them. ‘I cannot tell you all how grateful we are for your intervention. We all owe you our thanks.’ 

‘Of course, Father.’ Cary gestured to the bench next to him. ‘Would you wish to join us.’

‘I have already supped.’ Father Osbourne replied. ‘And while I appreciate that you have no doubt travelled a great distance, I would implore you to come with me and at least see the boy. As you are no doubt aware, we wish him gone as soon as possible.’

Ross frowned. It was most unusual for them to be treated in this manner and he looked across at Cary. He was their leader, the man who had trained all of them in their sacred duty, and his face told of concern. Then he seemed to come to a decision and rose from his seat. 

‘Of course, Father.’ he replied. ‘Will you take us to him?’

***********

The witch was being held in the cellar of the church rather than the gaol, which surprised them all. What was even more astonishing was the men all clustered in the nave of the building amongst the pews. The tallest of these came forward, his stern face grave. He took Cary’s hand, his dark eyes glancing over them all. 

‘This is Squire Trelawney.’ Father Osbourne explained. ‘He is our landholder.’

‘Squire.’ Cary returned his greeting. ‘I am Cary Warleggan.’

‘Your reputation precedes you, Witchfinder.’ Trelawney said. ‘You and your men.’

Cary nodded and turned to them. 

‘These men are my son George Warleggan, Ross and Francis Poldark and Father Dwight Enys.’ he explained. ‘They have come to assist me.’

‘So many.’ Trelawney looked back at his own men. ‘This is a good thing.’

‘How so?’ Cary asked and Trelawney’s expression darkened. 

‘We have laboured under this plague for nigh on two years now.’ he replied. ‘I am sure that the good Father explained our predicament in his letter to the Archbishop, which is no doubt why you have arrived.’

‘Aye, it is.’ Cary said. ‘He deemed the matter to be of grave urgency.’

‘It is.’ Trelawney stated. ‘We have not had a harvest worth mentioning for two seasons past. Our animals lie struck down by pestilence and our children sicken. All the while that demon sits in his cage and mocks us.’ He turned and spat on the floor. ‘Curse his name!’ 

‘I see.’ Cary looked back at them. ‘Well, Father Osbourne has brought us here to see him, so shall we get on with it?’

‘This way.’ Osbourne was standing with a ring of keys. ‘We have been keeping him here because it seems that he is unable to escape from holy ground.’ 

Ross raised an eyebrow at Dwight and caught a hidden smirk. Rural folk were a superstitious bunch. A good cage with the proper seals would hold any witch and even strong ones could be disarmed with wafers and salt. These people were probably far more taken in than they should have been, but it would not do to point that out. 

They followed Osbourne down a spiral stair under the main foundation of the building. There was a distinct chill down here, probably used for storage of perishables under normal circumstances. He stopped to light the torch with the taper he held aloft and then Ross could make out a large space, stacked with wicker baskets and wooden chests. 

In the middle was a large cage, crudely built from iron and wood. It was set on the ground and jus large enough for a man to stand in. There was a line of salt poured in a circle around the base and as they drew closer, Ross could just make out a figure inside, seated with his back to them. He wore a simple linen shirt and Ross could see he was barefoot. His head was a mess of matted curls, seemingly fair in the light of the torch. 

‘Here he resides.’ Father Osbourne said in a shaky voice. 

‘This is the witch?’ Cary asked and the figure in the cage started to laugh. It was low and amused and very, very young. 

‘Yes.’ he said, not turning around. ‘I am the witch.’ 

‘Hold your tongue, fiend!’ Trelawney barked. He looked at Cary. ‘You will take him away this evening?’

‘This evening?’ Cary was clearly taken aback and even Ross balked at the rudeness. ‘We have travelled far and need to rest.’

‘Please.’ Father Osbourne implored. “You must take him as soon as possible.’

‘One night will hardly make a difference.’ This was from George, and Ross smirked as he saw that he was clearly annoyed by the situation. George was an excellent witchfinder, but he was also a lover of comfort and the road disagreed with him. 

‘Oh, I assure you it will.’ This was from the witch and now he moved. Ross watched in interest as he got to his feet and turned around, and then had to bite his tongue as astonishment filled him. 

The witch was young, his face smooth and unlined. His skin was pale and held an odd translucency that would have been the envy of every maiden for miles around and his eyes were as blue as a summer sky. All of this was complemented by a fair face, albeit one that was smeared with grime, graced with a straight nose and full mouth. He looked like a cherub, his very countenance speaking of something quite contrary. Ross had met witches far and wide. He’d presided over their torture and execution, felt the burn of righteous pride when they’d met their ends. This though was far and away the most unconvinced he’d ever been in the presence of one. 

The boy smiled, revealing dimples and perfectly white teeth. He locked eyes with Ross, tilting his head like a curious dog and Ross felt a strange shiver go through him. He edged closer to the cage to get a better look and the witch moved with him until they were looking right at each other through the bars of the cage. 

‘He’s but a boy.’ His said the words to Cary but it was Trelawney who answered.

‘He is old enough.’ His tone was venomous. ‘He has wrought nothing but ill use and misfortune upon this village.’ 

Ross continued to look at the witch. His pale skin was scattered with freckles, his curls matted with dirt. Ross could smell him through the bars, sweat and filth and something else, something almost wld like the stink of a vixen in heat. He drifted closer without even realising it, and then a hand shot out from between the bars. The strength in it was inhuman, and he crashed into the bars and felt a hot wet tongue dragging up his cheek. 

He was barely aware of anything other than that feral scent clogging his nose, the strangely erotic sensation of the witch’s tongue before he was being ripped away by the others. The witch fell back, light eyes sparkling and a wicked smile on his face.

‘So these are the men who’ll be taking me to my death?’ He sounded almost cheerful. ‘I hope the Archbishop sent his best. I shall be a far more difficult charge than my mother was.’ 

‘Be silent!’ Trelawney sneered. ‘These men are the finest witchfinders in the land. They will have no trouble dealing with you, boy.’

‘What does he mean?’ Cary asked. ‘Was his mother also a witch?’

There was a snort of laughter from the cage.

‘My mother was a good woman.’ The witch moved closer to the bars and the gleam in his eyes turned angry even as his smile widened. ‘I am sure that the Squire has informed you of the circumstances surrounding her death and how it pertains to my incarceration.’

‘We have heard that you cursed this land when she died.’ Cary replied to him directly. ‘That she was taken by malady and your grief drove you to curse this place.’

‘Oh?’ The witch looked at Trelawney. ‘So then he has withheld the fact that he raped and murdered my mother so that he could claim our land. That only the fact that I struck him down where he stood kept me from meeting the same fate?’ 

Ross looked at Francis next to him and saw Francis’ look of distaste. 

‘He lies.’ Trelawney spat. ‘He is a child of the Devil. He struck me with no cause!’ 

The witch laughed again, now light and merry. 

‘Say what you wish, Trelawney.’ He sat back down. ‘This cage will not hold me for long.’ His chuckle turned dark. ‘By morning you and every man, woman and child in this village will be dead.’

‘For God’s sake.’ Ross muttered. He could see that this was no witch and the others appeared to be of a similar disposition. 

‘You see?’ Father Osbourne was shaking. ‘He needs to be removed. He has threatened to kill us all.’ 

‘He’s in a cage, Father.’ Cary said. ‘And I have to say that he looks very much unlike any witch I have encountered. We shall have to set him to trial in order to be certain. It will take three days at most, so we shall soon be on our way.’ 

‘That cannot be accommodated!’ Trelawney looked a little wide eyed. ‘The boy shall surely have us dead by dawn!’ He sounded desperate and Ross resisted an urge to scoff at him. He exchanged glances with Francis and saw that his cousin felt the same. 

‘He is barely a man, Trelawney.’ Cary pointed out. ‘He’s safely locked in this cage and cannot escape. This is simply what we do with every accused witch and we would be remiss to take a man to trial should he pass our tests. Now, the Archbishop sent us here to do that very thing and we will, but in the morning.’ 

‘But…’ Trelawney started and Cary held up a hand. 

‘If it will help matters, I shall leave two of my men here with the boy.’ He nodded at George and Francis. ‘They will see to it that he does not escape and murder you in his sleep.’ There were strangled noises from both of them, but Ross could only feel relieved that he had not been chosen. 

‘Leave all the men you wish.’ Trelawney scowled. ‘I shall not be staying to be slaughtered like a spring lamb.’

‘Ride as far as you wish, Trelawney.’ The witch sing-songed. ‘It still won’t be far enough.’ 

‘Enough.’ Cary took Trelawney’s arm. ‘My men will need blankets and more food and drink.’ This was to Father Osbourne. He nodded and scuttled back up the stairs. 

‘God’s balls.’ George muttered as his father and Trelawney followed them. 

Ross grinned and put a sympathetic hand on his cousin’s shoulder. 

“Enjoy your evening.’ he said and Francis snorted.

‘I told you this was wild goose chase.’ he grumbled and Ross chuckled, and left him and George glaring at the cage and its occupant. 

They ran back through the rain to the inn. Dwight went with him to the room, set with four beds. Cary had walked off with Trelawney, no doubt to get to the bottom of the story. Ross didn’t put much stock in the boy’s words. People said anything they could to get out of their situation and he was sure that it was fabrication. Trelawney was by all accounts a decent landowner, at least according to his reputation. 

The room they were to occupy was small and the bed lumpy, but to Ross it felt as close to heaven as it was possible to get. He stripped to his shirt and got in, and on the other side Dwight did the same. 

‘So what do you make of him?’ he asked and Ross snorted. 

‘He’s an angry boy with a grudge.’ he replied. ‘I very much doubt he’s a witch.’

‘We shall see in the morning.’ Dwight replied, but there was something in his voice that disquieted Ross. The monk was not one to be swayed by superstition and Ross put a lot of stock in what he said. He hadn’t really noticed Dwight’s reaction in the cellar, but now he came to think of it Dwight seemed to have been very quiet on the matter. 

‘What is is Dwight?’ he raised himself on one elbow and looked at his friend. Dwight did the same and his blue eyes were troubled. 

‘I have been with you these five years, Ross.’ he said. ‘I have seen some terrible things and watched you all strike down the servants of the Devil as the righteous men you are.’ He frowned. ‘I have held the utmost faith that we shall always overcome the evils that we are sent to test us.’

‘And now?’ Ross was confused. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that Dwight as afraid, which was quite ridiculous.

‘I am very happy to not be the one in that cellar.’ Dwight shifted in his bed. ‘I felt something in there tonight that I have never experienced before.’ 

‘And what is that?’ Ross felt his stomach start to twist. 

‘I do not know.’Dwight replied, lying back down and resting his arm on his forehead. ‘But I do not like it.’

Ross considered this for a moment and then sighed, leaning over to blow out the candle and plunge them into darkness.


	2. Take My Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross makes a choice.

‘Ross!’ It was the sheer panic in Dwight’s voice that jolted Ross from sleep and when he did, he found the monk bent over him with panicked eyes and bloody hands. He sat bolt upright, thrashing in the sheets until he toppled out of bed.

‘What in God’s name…’ He stared in horror at the way Dwight’s face crumpled.

‘They’re all dead.’ He was practically sobbing.

‘Who?’ Ross demanded, throwing him off and getting to his feet.

‘Everyone.’ Dwight shouted and started shaking so hard that Ross had to wrestle him to the bed and hold him down until he was quiet enough to make sense.

He dressed as best he could, grabbing his sword and hurtling from the room. His bare feet thundered on the stairs until he skidded into the main room of the inn, sliding across the flagstones. He stared down at the floor, realising it was wet underfoot and that was when he saw that his feet were now stained red. It was also sticky and when he looked into the room, he saw what the cause was. Ross had been a knight from the time he was sixteen. He’d fought long and bloody conflicts in the name of his church, so he knew full well that whatever had happened here had resulted in death if the piles of insides were an indication.

‘You can see for yourself.’ Dwight was perched on the last step behind him.

‘Stay here.’ Ross growled, unsheathing his sword. ‘Do not come outside.’

He threw the door to the inn open, looking out into a day that was grey and choked with fog and rain. He could see nothing but an empty road and houses beyond, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Seeing no-one upon arriving at night had been one thing. It was now clearly morning and the complete absence of life was disturbing and very wrong.

Ross’ first thought was the witch, who should have still been watched over by Francis and George. However, had there been some sort of incident it seemed likely they would have tried to intercede. That led to the realisation that he, and apparently Dwight, had heard nothing in the night even though it had been happening right below them. Perhaps it had been the same for them and he took off towards the church, just visible through the fog.

The nave was empty when he arrived, but the stench inside made him fall back. It’s source became apparent when he walked down the aisle, his legs and feet now muddy and cold and leaving wet prints behind him. He got closer, choking back a wave of nausea when he saw the pile of slithery wet coils on the altar. He’d seen enough men gutted to recognise someone’s innards and he had no doubt that he was looking at the remains of Father Osbourne.

He retreated, sword held out in front of him as if to ward off the evil that had committed this blasphemy. He staggered to the door that led down to the cellar, terror filling him as he thought of what awaited him.

‘Francis?’ He called down the darkened staircase. ‘George?’

There was no answer.

Ross considered his options and scouted around for something to light his way. There was nothing and so he had to resort to descending into the dark. The stench hit him even before he got halfway down and he bolted back up the stairs. He knew without a doubt that something terrible had happened down there and he had no desire to see what was left of his compatriots, but he also knew that he needed light. If the witch had been attacked as well that would be the best outcome, but if he hadn’t then Ross needed to see just what the situation entailed.

He found a candle upstairs in the nave and lit it with the flint that was kept beside it. This time when he went back down, he held the light and his sword out in front of him, heart pounding and his stomach heaving even before he saw the shine of blood on the stone floor of the cellar.

Francis and George were gone, vanished as if spirited away in the night. Their swords lay drawn and abandoned in a mess of bloody cloaks and the same pile of guts that had been on the altar. Ross dry heaved, biting back fury and disgust as he took step after careful step, his feet becoming more bloodied as he approached the remains. He gingerly prodded at one with his sword and saw a glint of metal. He used his sword to lift it, the candle light glinting off the cross that hung from the fine gold chain. Ross knew it well for it matched the one around his own neck, gifts from his uncle to him and Francis when they had joined their cause. He did not realise that he was standing so close to the cage when a soft laugh made him jump.

‘Every man, woman and child.’ he said in his soft voice. ‘With an exception or two it would seem.’

‘What have you done.’ Ross grated out the words. He wanted nothing more than to wrench open the cage and cut the monster in front of him to shreds.

‘Only what I promised.’ The witch tilted his head and regarded him. ‘They died poorly, screaming like children.’ His light eyes gleamed in the light of the candle flame. ‘I am surprised you did not wake with their pleas for their lives.’

‘You shall pay for this!’ Ross thundered, his voice cracking as he stormed up to the cage. The witch simply regarded him, not in the slightest bit perturbed. Instead he started singing, his voice lilting up and down, and it was too much. Ross charged back up the stairs and through the nave. The rain hit him in the face when he came out and he heard Dwight yelling for him even as he started back in the direction of the inn.

‘Did you find them?’ Dwight was sodden, his face pale as milk.

‘It’s the same as the inn. Francis and George are as good as dead.’ Ross spat. ‘And I think that should we go to the Squire’s house, we will find the same thing there.’ He grasped Dwight’s arm. ‘We need to leave. This place and that thing in the cellar are cursed.’

‘We need to take him back with us.’ Dwight protested. ‘It was our charge.’

‘Fuck our charge!’ Ross bellowed. ‘That witch said every man woman and child in the village.’

‘And yet we still live.’ Dwight said. ‘I cannot help but feel that this is our Lord’s intervention. We must fulfill our purpose here and bring the witch back with us.’

‘No!.’ Ross caught him by the sleeve. ‘We go now.’ He dragged the protesting priest after him but he was adamant. He knew they had to leave as swiftly as possible and he didn’t stop until they had returned to the inn. He threw on the rest of his clothes, barely cleaning his feet on the bed sheets before pulling on his boots. Dwight packed their things, then they made their way to the stable at the rear. Ross told him to leave the cart, taking his own horse and tying off the others, one to his and one to Dwight’s. They could move far faster with a change of mount.

The rain kept falling steadily as they left the village behind, riding up the hill and making for the woods that led away into the countryside and through the fens. There would be enough light to get them through and hopefully back on the road to London soon enough. The fog was still clinging to the ground, and it was quiet, too quiet in Ross’ opinion. The only real sound was the splash of their horses’ hooves through the water, the stench of rotting weeds and general damp making Ross feel rather less nauseous as it cleared out the smell from his nose. Now he was on the move, his mind started to catalogue just what it had encountered and he shivered, pulling his cloak around him.

Next to him, Dwight glanced back over his shoulder.

‘We should have tried to find Cary.’ he looked at Ross.

‘He was with Trelawney.’ Ross shook his head, dark curls shedding water. ‘Do you honestly believe he would have escaped?’

‘No.’ Dwight looked ill. ‘I still do not understand why we were spared.’

‘He wanted retribution.’ Ross stated. ‘The witch. I think we would find that no-one is left alive in that accursed place.’ He gripped his reins tightly. ‘We will not stop tonight.’

*********

They rode for hours and the way before them seemed to stretch and twist in a way that neither of them could fathom. Their horses were frequently in water up to the knees, and Ross could not understand why they could not find the road they had taken. He was sodden, every inch of him cold and wet and thoroughly disheartened. Dwight was silent beside him, and the feeling of dread that consumed them both was lingering unpleasantly.

There was still no sound, no bird or frog or animal in the thick fringe of reeds, nothing save for thick clouds of midges that now seemed to rise from the very surface of the waters. The trees they had originally been riding for seemed to be ever retreating from them and Ross was not sure if it was a trick of the mind or whether he was going mad, but his anger was now at breaking point.

‘God’s balls!’ he swore. ‘He should have come to the edge of the forest by now.’ He swiped at the insects that buzzed around his face and turned to Dwight. ‘How are you faring?’

‘Not well.’ Dwight’s face was white. ‘Do you not feel it?’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘We are not alone out here.’

Ross shivered, his own sense of unease sitting like lead in his stomach. He knew the priest was right, that something was not well.

‘I left him in his cage.’ His voice was low, and his words rang false even to him. ‘There is no earthly way he could have followed us.’

‘It is not the earthly that concerns me Ross.’ Dwight muttered.

It was starting to get darker, the light changing until it was almost impossible to make out the shapes of the channels and islands around them. The horses heads dropped and both he and Dwight were filled with a strange kind of lethargy. There was a large island just ahead of them, raised from the water and home to a stand of trees, their slender trunks and leafy tops providing some shelter from the rain.

‘There.’ Ross raised an arm. ‘I think we need to rest a while.’

Dwight did not answer, too sunk into his own misery. He simply nodded and they rode forward, the feel of solid land underfoot lifting Ross’ spirits immeasurably. He pulled his horse to s stop and half fell off, his boots hitting the earth with a squelch.

Dwight was not far behind him, and they both lashed their horses to one of the trees and then proceeded to get the lay of the island they were on. It was large enough for them to set up enough of a camp, although their chance of starting a fire was slim. They had little in the way of provisions, but they set to in trying to make the area more comfortable. Ross tried to gather branches and grass, stacking it up and suspending a spare cloak over it to try and keep out the worst of the rain. The wood smoked and spat but eventually caught after a while. The resulting fire was pitiful but it was better than nothing. They huddled down around it, trying to warm their icy hands as best as possible, both of them feeling a little happier when the rain finally stopped.

The horses were all standing close to each other and when they lifted their heads as one, Ross took notice. He got to his feet, sword at his side.

‘What is it?’ Dwight asked, his voice quivering. ‘Ross?’

‘Quiet.’ Ross hissed, raising a hand to still him. ‘Listen.’

He strained his ears and then he heard it, the lilting voice of someone out in the fog and still hidden from sight. He could just make out the words and they sent a shiver down his spine.

 _We lay my love and I_  
_Beneath the weeping willow_  
_But now alone I lie and weep beside the tree_

Ross stood with his back to the fire, fear gripping him like a cold fist. He recognised the voice, the mocking tone to the words.

‘Dwight.’ He glanced back at the terrified priest. ‘I think it’s him.’

‘The witch?’ Dwight was on his feet, hand clasped around the wooden cross he wore around his neck.

‘Out there.’ Ross nodded into the gloom. Dwight moved to his side and they tried to see into the growing darkness.

‘I have a name, you know.’ The voice drifted out of the fog and they both jumped. Ross looked at Dwight and he shook his head.

‘You are a child of the Devil!’ he yelled back and there was a laugh like the tinkling of bells.

‘My name is James Hawkins and I am the child of Rosemary Hawkins. She used to call me im before the Squire and his men killed her.’ The voice called back. It was now coming from a completely different direction and they both wheeled around.

‘You do not name your father?’ Dwight called.

‘Come now, priest.’ Jim laughed again. ‘Why do you ask questions you know the answer to. Even without your tests, you know what I am.’

‘Dwight?’ Ross looked at him in question. ‘What does he mean?’ He couldn’t help but see the naked terror on the priest’s face.

‘You need to leave, Ross.’ He crossed himself. ‘Go and try to at least save yourself.’

‘Too late, priest.’ Jim chuckled. ‘I have already marked him. He shall be mine before morning comes again.’

‘What is he saying?’ Ross stared at Dwight. In horrified realisation he scrubbed ineffectually at his face. ‘I am a son of the Church!’ His shout echoed out into the fog. ‘I belong to God!’

‘For now.’ Jim’s voice was calm and certain. ‘But you will disavow your brother and then I shall claim you for my own.’ His voice trailed off and then there was nothing but silence again.

They spent the next hour building up the fire, using the sacramental oils Dwight carries to set light to anything they can burn. The fire was still small, but it was better than nothing and Ross armed Dwight with a dirk from his pack. They sat back to back, preparing themselves for what might come when the light faded from the sky completely and the chill set in, freezing their fingers stiff. The horses were restless, crowding each other and nickering in distress and Ross half considered turning them loose. He’d never had such a feeling of impending doom as he does now, not even in the most hopeless battles he’d fought.

The singing begins again once night has fallen, Jim’s voice danced around them in the dark and Ross lit a branch to hold it at arm’s length as he moved with the sound.

‘Begone!’ he shouted and the laugh that came back turned his stomach, before Jim sang again.

 _Singing 'Oh willow waly' by the tree that weeps with me._  
_Singing 'Oh willow waly' till my lover return to me._

The last trailed off and then it was as if he was standing right by Ross’ ear.

‘You shall be mine before morning, Witchfinder.’ It was a soft purr, the intimacy in it making Ross feel nauseous. He lashed out with the branch even as he turned, sword cutting through nothing but empty air.

In his haste to fend off the witch, he did not notice a distinct lack of assistance until he looked t where Dwight had been standing by his side and saw nothing. It was as if the priest had vanished into thin air. Ross panicked, frozen in place even as he heard Dwight start to scream, the noise coming from all around him.

‘What are you doing to him!’ he bellowed, fear and disgust making him shrill.

Dwight let out another scream, and it broke Ross’ mind to hear him like that. He could only imagine what the witch was doing to him.

‘I can make his end swift, Witchfinder.’ Jim called. ‘You have but to say the word.’

‘Never!’ Ross spat. ‘Let him be!’

‘No.’ Jim is insistent. ‘You must agree to my terms first.’ He chuckled. ‘And you better be quick about it, Witchfinder. I have little patience.’ There was a strangled cry from Dwight and then a gurgling sound. ‘So what shall it be? Will you trade your life for your friend’s? Your brother’s? He is a weaker man than you and he suffers much.’ The statement was punctuated by another scream. ‘Or would you have me spill his guts onto the ground and take his soul to hell along with me?’

‘No!’ Ross sank to his knees, despair filling him. ‘Please, I beg you. He’s a good man, a man of God.’

‘Then trade.’ Jim’s voice was softer, persuasively reasonable. ‘Give me yours instead. I have need for a strong man stand by my side, to fly through the night sky with me, and I would have you.’

‘Why?’ Ross shook his head, hair hanging into his eyes as he pleaded. ‘Why me?’

‘Because I like the look of you.’ Jim’s voice ws now close and Ross looked up to see him melting out of the darkness, his face illuminated by the fire. He looked older somehow, harder and more beautiful for it. His bare feet were muddy, his shirt soaked through and clinging to the outlines of his body. Ross could make out his skin through the linen, turned sheer by the rain, and he was stunned to realise that the witch was possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever sen. His curls were wet and stuck to the sides of his face as he came towards Ross, making not a single sound and with one hand held out, fingers curled invitingly.

Ross stared at the hand. He knew what it would mean of he took it, the cost that would come with submitting to JIm and letting him spare Dwight in exchange. He looked up and the light cast from the fire hit Jim’s eyes, making them seem as if they were burning.

‘Come with me, Ross.’ he whispered. ‘And I shall give you anything you wish. You have but to serve me.’

Ross looked at him, realisation coming slowly until it made him laugh at his own stupidity.

‘You are no witch.’ He hung his head once more, heart sinking to the bottom of his boots.

‘No.’ Jim’s voice was gentle and Ross saw the shadows move as he knelt in front of him. Fingers that were far too warm to be human gripped his chin and lifted his head so their eyes met. ‘I am far more than that.’ He smiled and his dimples shadowed his cheeks. ‘I can give you power beyond your wildest dreams, show you things that no mortal could ever see.’ he ran his thumb along Ross’ lower lip. ‘Just give yourself to me and you shall have all of it.’

‘And Dwight?’ Ross’ voice was hoarse. ‘You shall spare him?’

‘In exchange for your immortal soul?’ Jim nodded. ‘I will.’ He leaned in, hot breathed ghosting over Ross’ mouth. ‘Shall you assent? Will you come to me of your own free will?’

Ross looked up into his eyes, feeling himself damned even as he knelt.

‘I shall.’ he whispered and let himself be kissed.

Heat flared through him, unexpected and unwelcome and yet Ross was powerless to do anything to stop it. JIm’s mouth was enticing, warm and sure and when he pressed in with the lightest touch of his tongue to Ross’ mouth, Ross found himself moaning and opening up to him.

Hands moved to his shoulders, sliding around and into Ross’ wet hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp burn. He fought against the lust he felt rising inside him, trying so hard to not fall too easily but then the witch’s tongue as in his mouth and his slender form, barely covered by the wet linen shirt, moved against him and all his resistance washed clean away with the rain. He slid both hands up the sides of Jim’s body, taking the shirt with them until he pulled back and eased it over the witch’s head. Jim smiled, teeth glinting unnaturally white in the firelight and then he threw both arms around Ross’ neck, fairly devouring him. He bit hard at Ross’ mouth and Ross recoiled, tasting blood. Jim leaned on close, licking it from his lip.

‘Sealed in blood.’ he whispered. ‘You are perfect.’ He smoothed Ross’ hair back from his face. ‘I shall very much enjoy this.’ He moved his hands and pushed and Ross tumbled over into the mud, the cold and wet seeping through the clothes at his back. He could hardly feel it though, the heat that had built inside him now all-consuming as Jim straddled him. His face was flushed, eyes too bright and when Ross’ eyes were invariably drawn down he saw that the witch was rampant, his hard cock standing up against his belly and already wet and shining in a way that had nothing to do with the rain. His own body responded instantly and Jim laughed and leaned over him, his musky smell thick in the air.

‘What does your bible tell you of this?’ His fingers dragged over Ross’ mouth. ‘Answer me, witchfinder.’

‘It is a sin.’ Ross bit out, gritting his teeth when Jim rolled his hips in an obscene undulation, the friction on his own cock enough to make him worry at his bitten lip. He tipped his head back and groaned when Jim shifted down a little, hands at the stays that held his breeches closed.  
‘In that case, it is a fine thing that you shall have my favour.’ he said and then he worked Ross free, clever fingers wrapping around him. Ross bit back the sounds that threatened to tear free, but he was lost when Jim moved his hand with undeniable skill. His grip was firm and Ross arched up into it. He could do nothing but lie there and take it, and when Jim moved over him he tried briefly to push at him but his limbs felt like lead.

‘I…’ He felt lost, adrift on a tide of something he could not fight.

‘Soon, nothing will matter.’ Jim was right over him, smiling beatifically as he lowered himself and Ross hissed at the feeling of being drawn in. It was too hot, too dry and it pained him but the witch was relentless and he dropped down, taking Ross inside him as if born to it. He bore down and Ross cried out, the heat between them now making him sweat even as the witch rose and fell onto him, the tightness around his cock the only thing in his consciousness. He could smell them both, hear the harsh panting of the man above him. The tightness had eased as he reached for Jim’s hips, guiding him in his movements as he gave in entirely.

The fire leapt behind them, reaching into the sky as cascades of tiny sparks flowed around them. Over him, Jim’s eyes took on a strange hue, glowing as if lit from within and pulsing in time with their frantic movements.

‘Come with me, Ross.’ His voice was like honey in the carcass of an animal, sweet and corrupted and drawing Ross deeper and deeper. ‘Say you shall be mine, body and soul.’

‘Yes.’ Ross breathed and the second he said it he felt something taking over him. He got a hand to the ground, pushing up to catch Jim around the waist and move with him, driving in deep. ‘I will.’

Jim threw his head back, laughing a he held on. His nails dug into the back of Ross’ neck, bright little pinpricks of pain as he bucked against him and Ross buried his face in his neck, breathing in his smell. He could feel the end coming for him and he revelled in those final moments before it hit. He shouted to the sky as he climaxed and the witch matched him stroke for stroke until they were both spent.

Ross lay still, unable to breathe or comprehend what he had just done. He felt Jim ease off of him and then he was standing, naked and exquisitely beautiful in the firelight. He looked up into the sky.

‘Come.’ He glanced back down at Ross. ‘We should be going.’

Ross managed to get to his feet, lightheaded as he took the offered hand.

You need none of these things.’ Jim said and waved a hand. Ross looked down to find himself as unclothed as Jim was, but instead of shame he felt nothing but exhilaration. He heard the sound of singing, but now it came from all around them and when he followed Jim’s gaze he saw other figures in the sky, silhouetted against the moon and stars in the now perfectly clear sky. They were all naked, their pale shapes flying past.

_Ross. It is time. Take your place amongst them._

Ross looked back down, Jim’s hand no longer in his. Instead he met golden eyes with oblong pupils, the buck that looked up at him pitch black and with great sweeping horns.

Ross smiled down at his new master, then raised his arms and felt the power lift him up, up and away into the sky where he joined his new brothers and sisters until he’d left everything behind.

Down below, Jim watched him disappear into the night sky. He finally turned, cloven hooves leaving no sign of his path as he tripped over the muddy ground, past the tree where the torn remains of the priest still hung, and out into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from O Willow Waily
> 
> And yes, Jim might be Black Phillip :)


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